[For Bobby] Ghosts that we knew.

[prodigalflame]

John felt weary as he clambered up the couple of steps to the porch. His legs were lead; his brow creased; his spine stiff and uncomfortable. He'd only stopped for one drink and that had clearly not been enough. It wasn't that he was tired, for his head was chasing itself around with unproductive, dark thoughts at fifty miles an hour.

Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the keys and even sliding them home in the lock seemed too much of a task. Around him the London gloom seemed oppressive, and it didn't seem to lift inside the house, all dark rooms and black windows, papers not done, books unread, the products of a life - his life - aimless and artless.

He hid the rings behind some boxes at the bottom shelf of one of many bookcases in his study, safe in the knowledge that Bobby didn't really infringe upon his privacy, didn't really impose, didn't really push - but god, sometimes he wished he did. Sometimes he was just plain tired of hiding things, of sorting through the truths to tell and parsing them, of biting his tongue, of pushing it down, of being - well, not a good guy, but a dishonest guy. Because that what it felt like.

Who did he have to confess to, now that no-one could ever figure out his crimes?

Closing his eyes, he pushed himself back up, and god, he felt old. He'd set fire to two businesses earlier that day, and it had felt good. Enjoyable, even. Pure. He'd kept himself to strict limits, there'd be no casualties, and he'd walked away with a chuckle in his eyes, but...it was the kind of shit he'd pulled when he was a kid. Petty. Angry. Us versus them. And running into Em, and hearing her story; and then running into Jag - it reminded him there were different ways of using power, of loving fire, of being him.

Bobby was probably upstairs, but John didn't go up. It felt too much like forgiveness. Bobby always did, even at Alcatraz. Then, it had just made him angrier. Now, it shamed him. So he rummaged around in the kitchen for the bottle of vodka he stashed away for nights like this, and retired to the couch to drink, and drink, and drink.

Comments

[prodigalflame]

"Oh, I know," John said simply in response to Bobby's declaration, a wry smile curving his lips. "It's one of the reasons why I fell in love with you. That you see the world a different way. That you...care." And John cared, he cared fierce and burned bright, but it was a narrow, grudging thing compared to the sort of compassion Bobby demonstrated on a regular basis. Or so he assumed, anyway.

He had noticed the stiff line of Bobby's body at first, and when Bobby turned finally, and he saw those tears glistening, the moment ended. It would have been easy to toss off a bitter, angry remark about how Bobby really didn't know what had been done to him, to spit it all out in a river of venom and condemnation, but that was an old Pyro trick, forever pointing out how wrong people were, or how they didn't get it. Forever seeking understanding and approval.

Since then, John had learned that understanding didn't really happen. He'd learned in in the feel of the cure, cold, deadening his veins; he'd learned in in the smack of a fist to his face, a boot on his hand. He'd learned it in endless sessions with a counsellor that had helped him work on his rage but done little to assuage the simple fact John Allerdyce lived in a fucking unfair world. So he didn't shoot a barb at Bobby, or spill his guts out.

And so John hardened himself, a little. What he'd heard about, from Em - what he'd dared think about - well, fuck it. Maybe some guy with his face and his name had handled things better way over in other universe yonder, but he couldn't afford to think like that. Introspection was for prison cells and therapy sessions. He had been right when he'd told Bobby earlier that the only way he'd managed to keep himself together was to tell himself it was always going to happen. He wasn't that other Pyro; that wasn't his universe, his people, his Bobby. And he got the guy, so what was there to worry about?

He. Got. The. Guy. That was proof enough for him. It had to be. Thinking too hard and falling apart was not an option. But John knew he needed something, something more.

John kept his secrets and held his pain closer and didn't want to see his guy cry anymore. He didn't want to be the cause of tears running down Bobby's cheek. "What we have..." he said gently, taking another step forward into Bobby's personal space, seeing how he reacted, "is good. Is better than good." He took another step, and reached out to wipe a tear away from Bobby's face. "Let's get to bed, okay? It's been a long day, and a rough night, for both of us."

[cold_blueeyes]

Bobby closed his eyes for a moment as John's hand gently brushed his cheek. Part of him was still raw and hurt by John's words, wanted to retreat, to pull away, to regroup. That part of him still wanted to sleep in his old room, to give himself time to shake off that hurt, pack it away where it could be easily ignored.

But a much larger part just wanted everything to be okay again right now, wanted to wrap himself around John and show him that no matter what they'd both done, it didn't change what they were together now. It wouldn't. He took a shaky breath and nodded, opening his eyes to give John a wan smile. "Yeah, okay." He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of John's mouth. "Bed sounds good."